


One More Time

by Ceminar



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Exhibitionism, F/M, Humanstuck, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Reminiscing, Self-Indulgent pairing here, Semi-Public Sex, Unnamed Accident, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 04:09:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3276155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ceminar/pseuds/Ceminar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You just want one more time with this guy. That’s it. One more and you’re done. One more and you can stop thinking about those times.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One More Time

**Author's Note:**

> Just a heads up, apparently I'm incapable of writing anything without even a tiny bit of sad, there's some at the very end. ALSO. I still suck at tagging, so if any are spotted, please let me know. This is really self indulgent, though. Like... I love this pairing so much.

Just one more time. One more time to feel his lips, his hands on you. To hear his voice in your ear, to touch him. To taste him. Just one more time with the only man to make you feel beautiful without saying it, to make you work for what you wanted. The only man that you feel desire for, even years after last speaking to him. That’s all you wanted, just one more time with him.

 

The two of you were never even a thing. He didn’t ‘do’ relationships and that was just fine by you. Your moments together were just meetings of the flesh. Meetings that you honestly hoped would never end. The way he would touch you, draw sounds from you that no one to this day has been able to recreate. The way he looked at you, how he would whisper your name with admiration.

 

'Porrim…'

 

And the sound would make your head swim. Would make you pull him closer as he caressed your hips, as his fingers would slide under your shirt, trail down your sides, dance across your waist and make you shiver and pant. How his lips would fine your neck to kiss, to lick, and you just had to respond in kind, moaning his name with almost embarrassing need.

 

'Kurloz…'

 

Hearing that would always make him smile. Not ‘Prince’, the nickname everyone called him. But Kurloz. His actual name that fell from your lips when you met like this, when there was no one around, nothing but for the two of you, the brick wall he had you pressed against, the streetlight in the distance and the darkness that surrounded the two of you. You would moan his name again, and he would bite, leaving a mark, his mark, to remind you of this night and tell this story to anyone who would see it.

 

That’s motherfuckin right, he would say, seeming to get his fill of teasing you for now, hand moving under your skirt, the sounds of the fabric sounding almost too loud to you as it rubbed against the wall, reminding you that you were outside, that anyone could see you, could hear you.

 

Only they couldn’t. Not see you at least. No, your spot was too well thought out for that. But sound traveled, and he made it his mission to make you cry out as loud as possible, something you were only too happy to do as your whimpers gave way to a tiny squeak, panties slid to the side so he could rub your already slick folds.

 

So much for being such a sweet lil thang, he would tease, thumb brushing across your piercingless clit, licking across your jugular as your pulse quickened, the hand not between your legs sliding up your side to cup your breast. You try to grind against him, but every move you make, he pulls back far enough to just barely keep touching you, the lips against your skin quirked up in a smile as you whimper.

 

Then he bites you. Teeth sinking into your tender, cinnamon toned skin as you try to squeeze your thighs together, as you cry out in pleasured surprise. But he doesn’t let your legs close. No, he keeps them spread as he continues his torment, fingers capturing your nipple, pinching it as if in punishment for trying to stop his fun.

 

He pulls away after what feels like an eternity, placing one last mark on your collar , but fingers continuing to slide just inside you before pulling back, rubbing and teasing your folds, your slit, your juices dripping down your thighs, down his hand.

 

You’re so motherfuckin wet, he says, another brush against your clit that sends a jolt through you, making your knees almost give you. He says that shit can probably be heard across the way. Wonders what kinda shit could be making you all motherfuckin excited.

 

As if he doesn’t know. Your eyes are brimmed with tears of frustration, of pleasure, your chest heaves as you try to breath, skin flush with need as you grab him, try to pull him closer, to get those wicked fingers inside of you, he only laughs, asks you what you want, and you snap.

 

Quit fucking playing.

 

You can tell by the way his eyebrow raises that that was a poor choice of words. With a shrug, he pulls his hands away from your body, and you miss the warmth at once. He steps back, turns away from you but you see him raise his hand to his lips, see that devilish tongue drag across his fingers as he tastes you.

 

If that’s how sis is gone be, then he’ll just be on his way. But, he adds, taking another step away from you, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. You is motherfuckin sweet on the taste nubs.

 

On his third step, you find your voice again, and call out for him. He stops, doesn’t turn, but you know he’s listening.

 

You call him a tease. An asshole. You fling every frustration induced insult you can imagine at his back and demand he finishes what he starts. You hate him, and you hate how he does this to you.

 

When you finish, his shoulders are shaking in barely contained laughter. He knows, he says, turning to you again.

 

Then he’s on you. Your back is pressed against the wall and he’s pressed to your front so closely you feel his erection through his jeans. You feel his warmth starting to seep into you as he just grins down at you, grinds against you, and with the way his eyes shine in the darkness he just knows.

 

He knows you don’t really hate it. He knows he’s a fuckin tease. Know’s he’s an asshole, but more important, he knows his bitchin sis likes that shit. Because where would the motherfuckin fun be? He was the only one that could leave you a mess. The only one that could break you like this. He was the only one that could see the classy, powerful woman before him and make her come to him. Make her work for what she wanted.

 

And he was right. He was right. Anyone else, man, woman, and all of the above, anyone else would fall to her charms. A wink here, a look there, and they would nearly fall over themselves to please her, be it notes, or food, or even especially the bedroom. But not him. Her charms didn’t work on him, for whatever reason, and it just made it so much better.

 

To not be in control. To not call the shots.

 

And he knew it. He knew he was right, and he knew you couldn’t argue, even if it was just for the principal of the matter. Another grind against your thigh, and he pulled back, though this time, it wasn’t far. No, this time when he moved away, it was to lean against the wall himself, the sounds of him undoing his belt, of him pulling his pants down were purposefully loud, to remind you that you were outside where anyone could stumble upon you. Because he knew it excited you.

 

You don’t have to be told what to do next. You like this part. With a token huff, you move to your knees, his only words being to keep your hands on him. Easy enough, you decide, though you didn’t need to be told that. With a hand on his waist, the other wrapped around his length, you give his member one long, languid lick, gathering the bead of precum that had formed at the tip and groaning at the taste.

 

How many times have you done this, you muse, black painted lips wrapping around him as you slowly lower yourself to the base of his cock. More times than you’ve actually fucked, that’s for certain. And that’s fine with you. You actually like these moments better, for all the feeling that can be put into these short little trysts. It’s somehow more intimate to you, the teasing, the time and effort he puts into it, how even after you part ways for the time being, you can still feel him on you.

 

It’s better that way.

 

His hand running through your hair brings you from these thoughts, and you open your eyes, realizing they were closed as you felt him slip into your throat. The two of you have done this so often, you no longer even gag. You watch his expression, how his own eyes are closed, how he’s facing down towards you, lips moving in whispered prayers to his ‘Mirthful Ones’, in swears as his hand moves to caress the side of your face. When he utters your name, his eyes open, and your green lock onto his deep purple ones and his face splits into a lazy smile.

 

That’s a good motherfuckin cocksucker right there. The hand in your hair tightens, pulls you closer as your lipstick smears down his shaft, as your lips meet his pelvis and leaves their mark there and he groans. So fucking good at this shit, he says, and you reach to knead his balls, the hand on his hip moving across his stomach, tracing his happy trail before sliding back up across his skin. There’s no verbal warning when he’s close. There hasn’t been since your first time together. Instead, he tightens his grip even more in your hair, pulls you back so you sit there on your knees, open mouthed and panting, waiting.

 

He doesn’t make you wait long, either, as he strokes himself to completion, as salty-sweet spurts of white hit their mark, for the most part. When he finishes, you lick what little landed on the corner of your mouth, wiping the rest from your cheek and chin with your thumb before sucking that clean as well, leaning forward to ‘tidy up’ as he catches his breath, just watching you.

 

More motherfuckers need to get on your level when it comes to that shit, he says, thumb brushing across your cheek as you place a kiss to his hip, another black pair of lips to match the smudged ring around his cock. You gloat that you’re not just on a higher level, but on another plane of being when it comes to that as he helps you up, pins you against the wall again.

 

He ain’t complaining.

 

Again, his hand is up your skirt, rubbing against the soaked material of your panties, pulling a low whimper from you and reminding you of your need once more. He says since you been so motherfuckin good, he gone let you pick how you finally get off and you have to consider your options.

 

His tongue is truly wicked, and not just when it comes to clouding your mind with the most beautifully dirty thoughts and images imaginable. The attention he gives when he’s between your legs is second to none and makes you weak just imagining it. But that's not how you started this evening.

 

You tell him you want him to finish what he started, and the grin is back. Your turned around, ass pulled back with your skirt flipped over it, cheek pressed against the rough surface of the wall as he plunges his fingers into you and you nearly scream.

 

Nearly isn’t enough, though. He seems to know you well, inside and out, as his fingers thrust and scissor, curl and abuse the bundle of nerves inside you that makes your knees shake, as his thumb rubs circles against your clit. His chest is to your back, lips at your ear as he tells you how motherfuckin wet your pussy is, how good you feel around his fingers and how your would feel even better around his cock. His other hand finds its way under your shirt again, nails dragging across your chest before grabbing your breast, squeezing roughly. His name is the only one on your tongue, the only word falling from your mouth as if saying it enough times will save your soul from the eventual Hell it’ll find itself in.

 

And he wants to hear it. Louder. Sweeter. Again and again. He’s grinding against you as you pant, rocking against you as he sinks his teeth into your shoulder and you scream, as he squeezes your breast hard enough to leave a handprint and his fingers work you to climax and beyond, as your juices run down your legs and coat his hand. He doesn’t stop until your tremors subside, and you’re left hoarse and panting, knees shaking but steady enough to hold you up still.

 

There’s no tender after moment, either. Once you’re steady enough, he gives your rump a playful swat, leaving you to straighten yourself up, to pull your skirt down, fix your blouse and, as your try to regulate your breathing, fix your hair. But he doesn’t leave you. He stand there, watching with his belt undone but otherwise cleaned up, making a show of licking his fingers clean of your essence.

 

He was right, he adds, acting like he doesn’t notice how your eyes are locked on his tongue, how they sweep across and between the fingers that were, until moments ago, inside you. You is the sweetest thing to ever grace a brothers taste nubs.

 

When he starts to make obscene slurping noises, you look away, start to walk back towards the light. You ask if shouldn’t he be saving those noises for when he has his head between your legs again and he only asks why, when he knows how hot and bothered it makes his prissy lil thang. If you got a problem with it, then you could always go one more time.

 

And you want to. You want that one more time, need it, even. To feel his hands touching you in ways you haven’t felt since your last time with him, to have his warmth seep into you and your mind cloud from his words and his scent. You wish you could hold him again, be held by him so tightly, so closely that you meld into one being, a single entity of pleasure.

 

One last time, you want to hear him say your name, hear him whisper it like a secret, lose yourself in his voice as he promises you all these wonderful feelings you can’t describe.

 

But you won’t get that. You will never get that one last time. Because in the years you’ve been apart, the years since you’ve seen him last, he’s moved away. He’s found a person that he loves, he’s in a relationship. He’s had an accident that left him without a voice, at least one that could be heard by ear.

 

No. That last time won’t happen. Instead, you stay trapped in your personal Hell, laying in your bed, thighs slick with your own juices as you try not to imagine that the hands on your are his and not your own. As you try not to recall his voice, whispering in your ear. Try to forget the taste of him on your tongue, scent of him filling your nose, the weight of his body. As you try and fail at not calling his name when you reach your peak for the second time that night, eyes squeezed shut as the clock ticks to 4:27 in the morning.

 

You don’t get one last time with him. You don’t deserve it. He goes on, messaging you once in a blue moon, chatting as months didn’t pass since you last spoke, unknown that at the worst time, you remember your moments together, and wish for more. Unknown that you’re trapped in this Hell you made for yourself.

**Author's Note:**

> I actually wrote this up twice, the first time being on my phone at like, 5am. I finished, it was all well and good, but then the entire thing just went away. Poof. Gone. So, I had a little... breakdown... before buckling down and writing it again. I might possibly edit it again in the future, because I'm not 100% happy with this, but then again, I doubt I'll ever be since it's not the first one I put my heart into.
> 
> So... Sorry about that.


End file.
